by Iggy Sarducci
so i walk into the room
a clean off-white bare room, a bland room, church-rectory type room
half a dozen nervous-looking people on folding chairs
suckling neurotically on styrofoam cups
ping-pong eyeballs gaping at the carpet
meditatively devouring each others’ shoes, all fidgeting.
here ye, welcome all, here we are to bare our naked innards
purge our dirt
ration our demons out to strange dogs drooling at our gizzards
cleanse shine disinfect and deodorize our souls…
the door closes and like wind-up marionettes, necks jerk up
suddenly warm charming and neighborly
faces preen all over me
a hand is thrust at me
a hollywood grin
—hi, i’m Louisa, molested by my mother. big weird quirky smile
across the room the bald lanky suit coughs —hi again everybody— he looks at me, nods —Philip, son of an alcoholic, second cousin to a breast-fed hemophiliac
next to him in farmer jeans and flannel —i’m Luke, cross breed: Protestant father, Roman Catholic mother
next to me an emaciated spandex woman leans in —hi, i’m Nicoletta, i’m… a nymphomaniac workaholic with lesbian transvestite psuedophilosophical Freudian inbreeding tendencies
frumpy dark eyebrows next to her closes his eyes. high nasal voice —hi, i’m Melvin, recurring nightmare of a vegetarian muskrat in the himalayas on the verge of sleep-deprivation
i’m the last victim. the new guy. everyone’s quiet, all eyes staring at me,
big cartoon grins.
i look down at my shoes, one hangs untied,
take a deep breath that deafens the room,
thinking madly thinking maaaaaan i-don’t-belong-here i-don’t-wanna-beeee-herewhat-the-hell-am-i-doooo… what-do-i-say-to-these-nutjobs
i look up solemnly and smile —hi, i’m Rogongo, abducted by anglo-saxon yuppies at conception, annually prodded through a synthetic wildlife preserve in San Diego, fed neon pink beehive-shaped sugar fluffs and told it was fun, i’ve been subjected to superhydroponic brainwaves from my incarnate sister since ’66, i ate six candy bars on the way over here, recently came to the realization that i was born politically incorrect, and i harbor unsuppressable desires to unpeel grinning strangers like bananas.
they all shake their heads nervously and tragically, looking down at the floor
respectfully we all observe a moment of grave silence.
and then slowly all heads rise, ceremoniously.
and we look to the tattered guy in the doorway,
the guy steps forward politely, tips his cap —hi, i’m Ed. uhhh, is this the room for the free soup?
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